


Blank Inside

by shakti108



Series: Mingling [6]
Category: Bon Jovi
Genre: 1980s, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, M/M, Madonna songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-24 01:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17694740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: Beyond his hair-styling and eyeliner skills, Richie was nothing like a girl.





	1. One

Jon awoke to the sensation of something piercing his eardrums. That was, at least, where it began. As he sluggishly groped his way toward consciousness, the sound started to bore into his skull and make its way to the roots of his teeth.

_Fuuuck._

He did have a feeling for where he was. Even with his face smashed into the pillow, the distinct scent and scratch of hotel bedding suggested he'd made it to his room. That was good, he supposed.

He gingerly pulled the blanket away from his head, trying to identify the source of his suffering. Because if it didn't stop, he'd be forced to destroy it.

_I'm feeling good from my hat to my shoes …_

Jon groaned softly as he recognized the falsetto ricocheting off the bathroom walls. For months, it had been his occasional alarm clock on those rare days when Richie woke up first.

He shut his eyes tightly against the onslaught -- to little effect, since he still had ears.

_I'm in control, my worries are few, 'cause I got love like I never knew …_

"Hey, Patti," Jon called out, flinching at the fresh pain behind his eyes. "It's a little early."

The bathroom door opened and Richie poked his head out. "Oo-oo, oo-oo, ooo -- I got a new attitude!"

The door slammed and Jon cringed as the aftershocks rumbled through his whiskey-steeped brain.

_The fuck?_

He'd never understood how Richie could be hung-over and sleep-deprived yet happy. One hot shower and he was usually over his misery -- whereas Jon could easily cling to a drinking-related bad mood for a solid twenty-four hours.

He attributed it to his natural tenacity.

He heard the door again and cracked one eye open to see Richie, towel around his waist, still humming about his new attitude. The partial nudity dulled the edges of Jon's aggravation, but he still found the will to gripe.

"I thought you'd be wearing shoulder pads and stilettos."

Richie paused and gave him a sidelong glance. "You'd like that, huh?"

Jon slowly rearranged the pillow under his head. "Nah. Towel's good."

Richie turned to face him with a leer.

"Are you flirting with me?"

"Nope." Jon swallowed to relieve his parched throat. "I'm trying to sleep. We have that fucking photo shoot today."

Richie shrugged. "So what? They'll just make us lean sexily against a wall or something."

Jon groaned again. Even that seemed beyond his powers right now.

"I wanna rip my head off, man. How are you OK?"

Richie smiled in sympathy.

"I've been drinking professionally for years." He strolled to the foot of the bed. "I also know how to cure a hangover."

He started to crawl up, and Jon automatically pulled his limbs in like a turtle. "Ugh. Don't."

Richie halted, a flash of hurt crossing his face -- for just a second, but it was there. Jon sighed. "I just mean … I feel disgusting."

He inwardly winced at how girly he sounded, but Richie seemed placated. The smile returned as he resumed his slink, straddling Jon and planting his forearms on either side of his head.

"Let Dr. Sambora help."

Jon snorted. "What a disturbing thought."

"What?" Richie feigned offense. "I'd be a great doctor."

Jon trailed his fingertips along Richie's upper arm, skin still warm from the shower.

"Well," he conceded, "you have done a lot of amateur gynecology."

Richie chuckled and casually brushed some hair away from Jon's eyes. "True. But I'm out of the vagina business."

Jon suddenly felt wide awake. He wasn't expecting a declaration like that, however crudely put. Sure, he'd said the word _love_ out loud, and Richie had said it back -- but they'd never actually talked about being monogamous.

"You are?" he asked, just to be sure.

Richie's smile faltered. "Well, yeah. Right?"

He lifted up ever so slightly, and Jon immediately disliked the distance. He slid a hand down Richie's back and hooked his thumb under the towel.

"Yeah," he said simply. "You're definitely done with that."

He brought his other hand to the back of Richie's head. "C'mere, Patti."

The contact was gentle as their lips met, and after a few chaste pecks Richie pulled away, just enough for Jon to see his exaggerated grimace.

"Your breath is toxic right now," he pronounced, before leaning in and nibbling along his jaw. "That's how much I love you."

And he said it so off-handedly, so comfortably, that for an instant, Jon was sure he'd heard wrong.

He felt a shiver run through him, so he wrapped an arm around Richie's shoulders, drawing him in a little tighter. When that wasn't enough, he worked his other hand under the towel.

Richie's lips grazed his ear. "Thought you had a headache."

Jon caressed the soft skin under his palm. "Thought you were some kind of dirty doctor."

He felt Richie's smile, and it seemed possible that the pain was loosening its vise-like grip.

*****

"I do not understand how the Fonz gets so many chicks," Richie marveled before stuffing an obscene amount of fries into his mouth.

Jon flopped onto the other bed and grunted, trying to convey his lack of interest. He'd been hoping to catch a post-lunch nap before they had to leave. But Richie had found a _Happy Days_ rerun, and was apparently in the mood to provide commentary.

"I mean, he lives in someone's garage."

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face. "You live in your parents' house."

"So do you," Richie countered, a defensive tinge to his voice.

"I know," Jon said, with a deliberate calm he knew drove Richie nuts. "I'm just saying, you've never had trouble getting girls … despite living with mommy."

Richie tried not to smile. "Dick."

Sensing that sleep was futile, Jon rolled onto his side and made a _gimme_ gesture toward the fries. Richie stretched his arm across the chasm between their beds, and Jon snared the whole container.

He ignored the glare he got in return. "Why are we having this conversation?"

"Haven't you seen this episode? It's a watershed moment."

Jon paused mid-chew, impressed that Richie knew the word _watershed._

"Why's that?" he asked through a mouthful of potato.

"Fonzie is thinking about committing to this girl."

Jon finished chewing. "That's big."

"And," Richie added, with a dramatic flourish, "it's his birthday. The Cunninghams get the Lone Ranger to come meet him."

Jon nodded. "Naturally. That's a lot for one episode."

"It's complex storytelling," Richie agreed.

Jon grabbed a few more fries, thinking he'd seem more casual if he spoke while eating fast food. "I know your birthday's Thursday, by the way."

Richie glanced over. "Is it?"

Jon smiled and shook his head. It was no secret Richie cared about birthdays and holidays, and having things acknowledged. It was mostly cute, but sometimes annoying.

And now, Jon was realizing, it had become stressful. Because he had no clue what he was supposed to do.

If Richie were a girl, he'd do the flowers thing, and maybe the dinner thing. If Richie were a girl he might be in love with, he'd go so far as to break out his acoustic for a serenade -- because when you might love someone, you have no shame.

But beyond his hair-styling and eyeliner skills, Richie was nothing like a girl.

The idea of serenading him was ludicrous, and flowers and dinner were out of the question. The only alternative, as far as Jon could see, was to play it like any of the boys' birthdays. The problem was, he had no desire for this birthday to go the way of last year's -- when they'd taken Richie to a strip club and promptly lost him.

Not that he would disappear into the valley of someone's cleavage this time around. But Jon preferred to avoid that particular terrain altogether.

He tossed the empty fry container onto the other bed. "I'm getting Jimmy Page to fly in to Dayton to meet you."

Richie made a tsk sound. "You really suck at the whole surprise concept." He nabbed the fry vessel and frowned. "You also suck at the concept of sharing."

Jon pillowed his head on his forearm. "You keep saying _suck._ Is that a hint, birthday boy?"

Richie eyed him. "You cannot make me wait till my birthday for _that._ That's, like, five days."

His expression was one of such profound disbelief, Jon almost laughed.

"Why not?" he replied coyly. "You'll be so worked up by then. Desperate, even."

Richie visibly swallowed, and Jon found himself shifting to accommodate a stirring in his sweatpants.

_Huh._

Pre-birthday torture, followed by sweet birthday release. That could be an excellent present, for both of them.

"Jonny," Richie whined, obviously reading his face.

Jon waggled his eyebrows. "Surprise."


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doubted there was a specific card for a not-gay guy having an illicit affair with his not-gay guitarist, who was turning twenty-six and being a huge bitch because of forced chastity.

It was the second time in just a few weeks Jon had gone out in public dressed like the Unabomber. But instead of covertly netting _The Joy of Gay Sex,_ this time he was hunting for a birthday card -- which, it turned out, was somehow more embarrassing.

Because there he was in the Hallmark aisle at Rite-Aid, staring at the "Romantic - for Him" section, under fluorescent lights, with a muzak version of _Borderline_ playing in the background.

He'd been trying and failing to come up with an actual present, and had assumed the card part would be easy. But now, staring at a sea of queasy sentiment, he realized he'd been dead wrong.

On the bright side, it was nice to get a break from Richie, who'd grown pretty fucking testy over the past few sex-free days. Jon had first noticed it in the lack of shower-singing -- presumably because Richie was too busy doing other things in there.

And that was fine by him. It was the other shit -- like the sullen stares over the breakfast table -- that was unnerving.

Even the guys were picking up on it. That morning, Dave had finally asked Richie what was up his ass -- to which he'd replied, with a pointed look across the table, "Absolutely nothing."

Jon had almost choked on his croissant.

Not that he was loving the dry spell he'd decreed, either. But he had more willpower than Richie, so he was sure his suffering was less acute.

Jon sighed as he tried to focus on the task at hand. He doubted there was a specific card for a not-gay guy having an illicit affair with his not-gay guitarist, who was turning twenty-six and being a huge bitch because of forced chastity.

So he snatched the first card that seemed to have a manly overtone, because it was brown. He promptly put it back when he saw the words, "To my Boyfriend, on His Birthday."

"Hell no."

Another brown-ish one caught his eye, and this one said only, "On Your Birthday …" -- which seemed promising enough. When he flipped it open, though, he found a whole shitload of additional words:

 

_Why do I love you?_

_There is no simple answer._  
_There are hundreds of little things about you._  
_It could never come down to one --_

 

Jon dropped the card like it was on fire. "Jesus Christ."

He heard someone behind him then, clearing her throat, so he quickly retrieved the card from the floor and stuffed it into a random slot. Glancing back, he mumbled an apology for his blasphemy in the Hallmark section, then scurried down the aisle.

That's when he saw the collection of cards labeled "Blank Inside."

_Yes._

Blank was perfect for Richie. Jon spun the carousel stand, scanning the card images for something acceptable. He bypassed countless butterflies and flowers and kittens, before spotting one card with a black-and-white photo of a dog in the rain.

Wet dog seemed pretty random, but Richie liked dogs for some reason.

_Perfect._

Jon grabbed it and blew out a breath. He wouldn't even be that embarrassed buying the thing -- though he'd also get a Coke and cigarettes, just to feel more like himself.

"Excuse me."

He glanced up to see the throat-clearing woman next to him. She was a lot younger than he'd realized. Cuter, too.

"I'm sorry," she said, squinting a little. "But you look familiar … Do we know each other?"

Jon froze, holding the dog card mid-air.

For a bizarre moment, he wanted to confess to this drug-store stranger. Something like, "I'm Jon Bon Jovi, of the rock band Bon Jovi. I'm here to buy a romantic birthday card for my guitarist."

Instead, he said, "Um. No -- I'm not from here."

The girl smiled shyly, but also seemed skeptical. "Oh. Sorry -- didn't mean to bother you."

Jon looked down at his feet. "No problem. Uh, have a good day," he said before high-tailing it out of the greeting-card aisle.

It wasn't until he'd made it out of the store, card safely in a bag tucked under his arm, that he realized he'd forgotten his Coke and smokes.

*****

Jon glanced at his watch, just out of curiosity. It turned out he was right -- He had been sitting there for over an hour, staring at the dog card poised on the bedspread in front of him.

The major pitfall of "blank inside," he'd discovered, was that he had to fill in the blank. So far he'd managed to compose the words, "Happy Birthday."

He propped his chin on his hand and started tapping his pen against the card, finding a rhythm -- like maybe that would pull some words from his brain. The only thing that surfaced was the same tune that had been stuck in his head since that morning.

"Borderline," he sang softly. "Feels like I'm goin' to lose my mind."

But as bad as this card nonsense was, at least he'd made some progress. With the present, he'd been stuck for days. He'd tried making a list, but had only come up with a variety of things he couldn't get Richie.

Clothes?

_I'm not his mom._

Guitar strap?

_He has 800._

Beatles recording?

_He owns every piece of Beatles-related shit ever manufactured._

Cologne?

_I'm not a girl._

Jewelry?

_Still not a girl._

A watch?

_We're not celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary._

 

The best idea he'd had was to hand Richie _The Joy of Gay Sex_ and tell him to point to the "activity" he wanted. They still had the photocopied pages, though Richie had gotten mustard, and then beer, on them.

But that seemed … wrong. He needed a gift that had nothing to do with sex. Just because.

Jon looked down at the card.

"Happy Birthday."

What else was he supposed to write? They didn't _say_ syrupy Hallmark shit to each other, so it seemed stupid to write it -- even if he could.

Eventually, he found himself singing under his breath again.

"Just try to understand, I've given all I can."

_Fucking Madonna._

He had to admit, though, that refrain was catchy as hell. Good title for a song, too.

Jon lifted his head and looked to the nightstand, where he'd left his notebook. It wouldn't hurt to take a break and work on some lyrics, he reasoned. He had a whole afternoon to deal with Richie's card.

"I'm a songwriter, for Christ's sake," he muttered, setting the card aside and grabbing his notebook. "This is nothing."

He'd come back to it later with fresh eyes, and the words would flow. He was sure of it.

*****

"What should I get for Rich?"

Dave stared at him from across the table, with no signs of comprehension.

Jon leaned forward in his chair. "For his birthday," he clarified. "It's tomorrow."

Dave shrugged. "How should I know?" He took a mammoth bite of hamburger then said something unintelligible, spewing crumbs along the way.

Jon rolled his eyes. "Pardon?"

"We'll take him out."

"We're in _Dayton._ "

Dave used his hand to wipe his mouth. "I'm pretty sure even Ohio has naked women. Richie's favorite."

Jon pretended to be very interested in his sandwich filling. "Well … I mean, yeah, we'll take him out. But I need to get him something."

He glanced up to see those eyes peering at him curiously. "OK," Dave said slowly. "What did you get him last year?"

"That Deep Purple bootleg from 1970," Jon answered without hesitation.

He was proud of that one, because it had actually been recorded at a concert on July 11, and Richie had been over the moon about it. He'd even hugged him in front of the guys.

Jon remembered feeling vaguely uncomfortable, partly because Richie had prolonged the embrace beyond standard guy limits -- and partly because it had felt better than a hug from your male best friend should.

"Oh, yeah," Dave said, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Just get him something like that."

Jon tapped his fingers on the table. "I could. But … I wanna get him something different."

Now Dave was openly gaping at him.

"What?" Jon demanded.

"Why are you making such a big deal about it? He's not your girlfriend."

Jon sat up straighter, feeling his pulse instantly spike. "What the fuck does that mean?"

Dave held up a hand. "Relax. I just mean, don't stress about it. You could get him a six-pack and he'd be happy."

Jon dipped his head again. "Yeah, I know."

He aimed for a casual tone, but his heart continued to pound. He had to wonder, for the hundredth time, how obvious it was now -- whether the guys somehow knew and were just pretending nothing had changed.

"You got _me_ a six-pack."

Jon blinked. "Huh?"

Dave loudly slurped the rest of his soda through the straw. "For my last birthday. You got me a six-pack and took me to that dive with the mechanical bull."

"Oh. Right."

He'd honestly forgotten that was Dave's birthday. He did remember the bar, though, and how they'd all been blasted before taking their turns on the bull. Mostly he remembered the strange flutter low in his belly as he'd watched Richie ride the thing, and how he'd promptly quashed it by hitting the bar for a shot. Later he'd found a shapely brunette to go home with, to ensure it was dead and buried.

Dave gave him an odd smile. "I mean … I know he's special."

"What?" Jon said, dimly aware his vocabulary had become severely limited.

"Y'know." Dave shrugged a shoulder. "You guys are close."

Jon wanted to reply, but really there was nothing to say. They all knew it was true.

He watched as Dave shoveled up the last of his fries. "I'm sorry," he said reflexively.

When Dave gave him a questioning look, he smiled tightly. "Just … We haven't hung out that much lately."

That got another shrug. "It's cool. We're hanging out now."

"Yeah." _And we're talking about Rich._

Suddenly Jon felt that same impulse, the one he'd had with the stranger at the drug store, to just confess. Except this one was even more unsettling, because he'd be telling someone who mattered. Someone who might not accept it, or forgive him.

He realized Dave was studying him again, face unreadable.

"What?"

Dave shook his head. "Nothing. It's just … You think too much, man."

Jon huffed a little laugh despite himself. "Yeah," he allowed. "Sometimes."

And yes, he did need to turn things over in his mind, because he did need to get things right -- at least the stuff that meant something. That was just how he'd always been.

Dave gave him a lopsided grin. "Six-pack and a bull. It's that easy."

Jon nodded, knowing he had to end this conversation before he said something really stupid.

"You're right," he lied. "I'll check out Dayton's bull-riding opportunities."

Dave's grin widened as he raised his empty glass. " _B'hatzlacha._ "


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon ran his thumbs across the sensitive skin of Richie's inner wrists. "Stop. Your face is gonna freeze that way."

At precisely midnight on Thursday, July 11, Richie crawled into his bed.

"It's my birthday." He tugged on Jon's t-shirt. "Let's go."

Jon smiled indulgently. "So predictable," he cooed, grabbing Richie's wrists to thwart his efforts. "Still a horny little fox, even at your advanced age."

"Yep," Richie agreed, attempting to free himself.

Jon couldn't help giggling as they grappled. "Unh-uh. We're saving this for the grand finale."

Richie stopped struggling, but Jon retained his grip, knowing it was just a ploy.

"Jonny," he said plaintively, switching tactics and sticking his bottom lip out. "It's my birthday. I deserve unlimited orgasms."

Jon ran his thumbs across the sensitive skin of Richie's inner wrists. "Stop. Your face is gonna freeze that way."

Truth be told, he probably wanted it just as bad. Five days of jacking off had been less than satisfying. On the other hand, something about the power -- knowing he was softly torturing Richie by being so close but not close enough -- was enticing.

With a groan, Richie rolled off of him and settled onto his side, mopey expression firmly in place.

Jon turned toward him and made a show of inspecting his face.

"Hmm." He furrowed his brow. "Twenty-six. I think you're gettin' too old for me."

Richie rolled his eyes. "Do you have any non-sex presents for me? I'm bored."

Jon scratched at an eyebrow, hesitating. This was the moment he'd been dreading. "Well … Yeah."

Richie's face lit up. "Really?"

"Sure," Jon said, bristling at his surprise. "You thought I wouldn't get you anything?"

Richie shrugged. "I dunno."

"Well, I did," Jon affirmed, with a smugness his gift did not warrant.

Richie smiled, in that well-practiced way that made people give him what he wanted -- people who weren't Jon, because he was immune to that shit. If he was hauling himself up to retrieve the present from his bag, it was only to avoid being badgered all night.

As he walked back to the bed, envelope in hand, Richie sat up -- a ridiculous sparkle in his eyes.

"It's nothing big," Jon warned, feeling an ominous discomfort in his belly.

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Dude. Never say that."

Jon kept his mouth shut and held the envelope out. He'd been unsure when he put the card together, but now that he was actually handing it over, he was certain he'd made a terrible mistake.

He watched as Richie pulled the card out and examined the front. At first, he appeared puzzled, but then bobbed his head a little, like maybe a wet dog was making sense to him.

"Cute dog," he remarked.

As he opened the card, Jon shut his eyes -- squeezing them tighter still when the room fell silent as a tomb.

_Shit._

He waited another breath before peeling his eyes open. Sure enough, Richie was staring at his present: a very thin stack of crisp twenty-dollar bills that Jon had withdrawn from Dayton First National.

"Money?" Richie finally said. He looked up in disbelief. "You're giving me money?"

Jon felt his cheeks rapidly flushing.

"Yeah," he said defensively. "So now you can buy whatever you want."

Richie kept gawking. "I know how money works."

And just like that, Jon was overwhelmed by humiliation. On some level he'd known, even as he'd walked out of the bank, that this was the absolute worst present he'd ever gotten anyone. It was worse than the three-legged snapping turtle he'd given his brother for his tenth birthday.

But it wasn't until now, seeing Richie's face, that the utter failure roiled his gut. And his first instinct was to lash out at it.

"What? You're bitching about a birthday present?"

Richie stood up, lifting his hand into Jon's line of view. "This is a stack of bills. It's like a birthday present from John Gotti."

Jon ducked his head, hating the heat in his face and praying it read as anger rather than shame. "So sorry I got it wrong, your majesty."

Richie let his arm drop and huffed in frustration. "I'm not mad you got it wrong. I'm mad you didn't bother to think about it."

Jon looked up sharply -- because hell no.

"I didn't bother?" he challenged, almost hitting squeak range. "I've been driving myself crazy over this stupid present. Everything I thought of seemed wrong, or not enough, or too much, or … "

He stopped abruptly, wanting to regain control of his voice, but finding he couldn't. He realized he wasn't just embarrassed, but genuinely upset. And that was not all right.

He crossed his arms and angled his body so Richie couldn't see his face. "I thought about it, OK?"

And that was it, his only defense. That he'd tried but spectacularly failed to do the bare minimum for his … whatever Richie was to him.

He just stood there awkwardly, waiting for Richie to say something. The space between them was so quiet he could hear the faint sounds of the TV in the room next door.

After what felt like an eternity, Richie spoke up.

"Oh."

Jon looked over his shoulder. "Oh?"

Richie dipped his chin and gave a little shrug. "I didn't know."

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed again, still clutching the dog card in one hand and the cash in the other.

Jon turned to face him fully. "That's all you're gonna say?"

Richie absently tapped the card against his thigh. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Well." Jon balked. "I don't know. Something."

Richie screwed up his face. "Why? You should be saying something. Like you're sorry."

Jon set his jaw. "I already said that."

"Unh-uh." Richie shook his head. "That sarcastic shit doesn't count."

Jon sighed. "Fine. I'm sorry."

Richie locked eyes with him. "Wow," he deadpanned. "That was so heartfelt."

Jon glanced to the side, toward his notebook on the nightstand. He didn't know why words were so easy sometimes, and weirdly elusive other times.

When he looked back to Richie, his head was bowed, hair falling into his face. And something about his posture, and the absurdity of what he held in his hands, made Jon's defenses weaken.

He'd never admit it out loud, but he hated letting Richie down. And it seemed he'd been doing that a lot lately.

He noticed then that Richie's shoulders were shaking slightly. Almost like he was … crying?

_Oh Jesus fucking Christ god._

If his limbs weren't frozen, Jon might've bolted from the room. He had no idea how to deal with seeing another guy cry, least of all Richie.

"Rich?" he ventured tentatively.

Richie looked up, lips pressed together and eyes shiny -- but not, thankfully, from unshed tears. As much as he was obviously fighting it, his lips quirked into a grin.

"You are such a fucking idiot," he declared, before dissolving into laughter.

Jon felt a wave of relief wash over him -- followed by the sharp bite of indignity. He crossed his arms again. "Oh, really?"

Richie held his hands aloft, showing Jon the products of all his deep thinking, and the laughter morphed into maniacal giggling.

For an instant, Jon thought he should stand firm and continue to justify himself. But there was a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, and it was winning, and that felt good.

"Shut up," he demanded, but was already laughing as the words tumbled out.

Richie flopped onto his back, still giggling like a lunatic, so Jon walked over and kicked him in the shin.

"I said shut up." He kicked again, though it only fed the giggles. "And give it back, you bitch."

"No way." Richie shoved the bills under his shirt. "No take-backs."

"Oh, that's mature." Jon took one step closer, so he was standing between Richie's legs. "And you think _that's_ gonna stop me from taking my money back?"

Richie gazed up at him, cheeks red, and Jon simply watched his face as their laughter gradually faded. Until just the remnants of a smile played at Richie's lips, and Jon felt himself reflecting it.

He nudged Richie's knee with his own. "That's not gonna stop me," he repeated, softer.

Richie bit his lip, a different kind of gleam in his eyes.

"I don't wanna stop you," he said lowly. "I want the rest of my present."


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "See?" he teased, even through his own shaky exhale. "I told you you'd be desperate."

Richie scooted back on the bed, in naked invitation, and Jon didn't hesitate to respond, straddling him and hovering so their lips were almost brushing.

It had been five long days, after all.

"What do you want?" he asked, ignoring the crack in his voice.

"Anything." Richie was already breathing hard. 

Two determined hands grasped Jon's ass, and he instinctively pushed back into them. He sensed this would be quick and dirty, and he had no problem with that. They had plenty of time for prolonged and dirty later.

It was ridiculous, Jon thought as he tasted Richie's mouth for the first time in five days. Ridiculous how much he'd missed this -- even though, until just weeks ago, he'd gone his whole life without it. And he'd been fine.

But now, as Richie's hands slid down the back of his sweats and explored his skin, he had to wonder if he could ever be fine again without it. And from the way Richie was arching into him, moaning into his mouth, it seemed the feeling might be mutual.

It was that thought, more than the raw physicality, that stirred something deep in Jon's chest.

Breaking the kiss, he dragged his lips to Richie's ear. "How bad have you been wanting this?"

He gasped softly when those hips rocked against his. "Almost as bad as you have."

Jon smiled then nipped at Richie's earlobe, just to show him the rudeness had been noted. "There's no way you've been holding up better than me."

He drew a wet line down the side of Richie's neck, swallowing the heat already pouring from his skin.

"You need it too much." 

Richie groaned, and Jon breathed it in as he pulled the strap of his tank aside and sucked along his collarbone. "All those long showers … What were you doing in there?"

He felt his waistband being tugged lower on his hips. "Let me show you."

The words were light, but Jon heard the undercurrent of need. So he lifted a bit and yanked up the hem of Richie's shirt, sending bills scattering onto the bedspread. On a different occasion he would've laughed at the image.

But it was Richie's birthday.

Jon hiked the shirt up just enough to lave at his belly, finding the skin there even warmer, and even more responsive. With each flick of his tongue, he extracted a little shudder or whimper -- telling him plainly that Richie was dying for it. 

Still, they stayed like that, awkwardly half-undressed, as if they didn't want to part for the seconds it would take to strip.

Eventually, Jon felt the familiar sensation of calloused fingers threading into his hair. Heard that same quivering sigh he always drew when he teased Richie's navel with the tip of his tongue. He realized they were at the point where they knew certain things -- could tap into memorized places or read each others' tells -- but still had so much to learn. 

And it sent a little thrill up his spine.

He quickly shifted to pull Richie's shirt over his head, and after a messy tug-of-war the rest of their clothes were out of the way. Jon strategized to land on top again, intent on doing most of the manual labor, because it was July 11.

Not a bad gig, he had to admit as he took them both in hand.

He instantly closed his eyes, content to lose himself in the simple feral pleasure of how they moved against each other. How they organically found a rhythm together.

It occurred to him that some things actually were easy.

They were just starting to quicken the pace when Jon felt a palm pressing on his chest. "Stop," Richie choked out.

Jon immediately stilled, knocked out of his reverie. "What?"

"I don't want this."

Richie wriggled out from under him, and for an awful moment Jon thought his heart was actually sinking. He'd always assumed it was just a saying. But then Richie sat up and flashed a dirty-as-sin smile, and all was right with the world again.

He crawled over to prop some pillows against the headboard then laid back, same devilish look on his face.

"C'mere," he coaxed, patting his belly. 

Jon fought to keep his face disinterested. "What for?"

Richie swept his gaze up and down, biting his lip when he landed on the very interested parts of Jon's anatomy.

"I have a present for you. For my birthday."

Jon nodded, unwilling to argue with the faulty logic. He inched his way up that long body, till they were face to face, hoping the tremor he felt in his arms wasn't evident.

Richie looked him in the eyes then let his gaze trail downward again. "Keep coming," he murmured. "I wanna taste you."

Jon suppressed a groan, trying to avoid any further embarrassment, then did as asked -- crouching on his shins, erection bobbing proudly in front of him.

"Well, hello," Richie greeted it.

Jon might've had a clever response, if not for that agile tongue darting out to lap at his tip.

"Fuck," he gasped, automatically falling forward and landing his forearms on top of the headboard.

Before he had a chance to catch his breath, Richie's hands were grasping his hips, lips rolling over the first inches of his length, tongue moving in a torturously slow dance.

Jon could only drop his forehead to his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Jesus, Rich."

Richie hummed around him, the vibration rippling into the base of his cock, and this time Jon moaned openly. Because fuck pride.

The grip on his hips tightened as he was pulled in deeper, until he could feel his tip gliding along the roof of Richie's mouth, luxuriating in the wet heat. 

_Five fucking days._

Jon made a silent vow to never propose something so stupid again.

He took a chance on opening his eyes and found a perfect view of disheveled hair, and full, glistening lips wrapped around him, savoring him. The sight made his thigh muscles quiver, and he started slowly circling his hips -- in counterpoint to the sweep and swirl of Richie's hot tongue.

But it wasn't enough. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to fuck that mouth raw, and just barely refrained from driving his hips forward.

Instead he pried a hand away from the headboard and took hold of Richie's hair -- giving him a little tug, hoping the gesture was decipherable.

Richie just grunted at first. But then he seemed to get the point -- tilting his head to change the angle, sucking harder, pulling Jon impossibly deeper into him.

"Yeah, like that," Jon urged, his own breath scorching his throat. "God, Rich …"

He left the thought there, his mouth hanging open, wordless. Because his breath was coming in ragged gulps now, body held on the spot by the humid friction sheathing him and the hands kneading his ass and thighs.

For all he knew, he might've been shouting to the ceiling. The only sounds he could actually hear were Richie's short, tight breaths, and his muffled moans -- sounds that were gradually dismantling him. 

Instinctively, Jon pulled one of Richie's hands from his hip and brought it to his lips, kissing a path from wrist to palm to fingertips. He glanced down to see Richie's eyes open and questioning, and he flashed a little smile before slipping the index finger, then middle finger, into his mouth.

He couldn't help feeling smug as Richie's breathing grew even more erratic. Couldn't help slurping obscenely around those fingers -- winning a desperate-sounding moan that sent an intense pulse into the pit of his belly.

For once, Jon wasn't second-guessing what he was doing. He just knew he was aching to be filled and it was as simple as that. He freed Richie's fingers and brought them around behind him, guiding them to exactly where he needed. 

Some foreign note, dangerously like a purr, bubbled out of him when the first finger pushed in. Then breath by breath, he completely forgot himself -- letting the low rumbles billow into reckless groans as Richie stroked that sweet spot over and over.

" _God_ … I …"

There wasn't enough air in his lungs for anything else, so Jon shut his mouth and concentrated on simply feeling.

And almost too soon, the combined sensations -- the sparks fanning out to his inner thighs and pelvis, the unrelenting suction -- were driving him to the edge.

But instead of just falling into the abyss, he blinked his eyes open. Without thinking, he slid his hand to the side of Richie's head, twisting the dark strands in his fingers, brushing his thumb across his temple. And as he watched those cheeks hallow, Jon was struck by the way Richie took a distinct kind of pleasure from giving.

It wasn't the first time he'd noticed. And it was sometimes hard to understand. 

Like right now. Jon couldn't see why he wanted _this._ But fuck, he was glad he did.

"Rich," he rasped.

That mouth just kept working, like Richie was trying to draw his soul out, and Jon latched onto his head with both hands. Dug his fingertips in, squeezed his legs into Richie's ribs, held him still as he tightened around those fingers for a final few moments. 

He kept holding on as his limbs trembled and he spilled into that open, hungry acceptance. Gradually, his grip weakened, but he held on till he had nothing left -- until he felt that familiar bliss of being empty, and then the quick sting of loss.

Dazed, Jon sat back on his haunches, leaving Richie gasping for air like he'd been drowning and just found the surface.

His first instinct was to collapse and let his body soak in the reverb. But as his eyes found focus on the heaving, sweat-slick skin in front of him, there was one thing he wanted more.

He scrambled down the bed, parted Richie's legs roughly and took him in without any fanfare.

That tore a drawn-out moan of relief, and hearing it rekindled the heat deep in Jon's pelvis. It was different but no less intense, he realized, than the feeling of those fingers moving inside him.

So he listened more carefully, for all the unchecked whimpers and gasps, as he licked a broad stroke along the underneath side of Richie's cock. He traced the changes in volume and pitch, and how they edged toward frantic when he teased that exquisitely sensitive tip.

Even through the hazy perception of arousal, it dawned on him that those sounds were sending a charge through every part of his being.

So maybe he did understand, a little, why Richie was so infatuated with giving.

By degrees, Jon swallowed him, still listening intently -- wanting to take him to the brink and back as many times as they both could stand. He knew he was getting somewhere when he felt fingers scrabble blindly at his ears.

"Jonny … Don't stop. Please."

He felt his cock stirring again at the blatant begging, but refused to give in. When he sensed Richie's breath becoming shallow, he pulled off and switched to his hand -- eliciting a whine.

"I know, baby," he soothed. "Patience."

He heard some utterance, possibly _asshole,_ but chose to ignore it in favor of more rewarding activities … like bringing his hands to the backs of Richie's thighs, encouraging him to draw his knees up. And absorbing the echo of Richie's shameless groan as he wasted no time complying.

Jon looked up to see him clutching the edge of his pillow, head turned to the side, biting his lip so hard he was liable to draw blood. 

"See?" he teased, even through his own shaky exhale. "I told you you'd be desperate."

"Congratulations," Richie growled. "Now just --"

He hissed as Jon leaned down to mouth one of his balls, any complaint on his lips disintegrating into a _Nigh._

Jon felt a tingling in his skin, knowing his tongue was doing things that were probably violating several Dayton ordinances.

Still, from his new vantage point, Richie's sounds had become a little too muted for his liking. So he pressed an index finger against the hot spot behind his balls -- just to send a jolt to that place inside that was tantalizing but not nearly enough. 

"Oh, fuck," Richie gasped, fisting the bedding and trying to bear down into the contact. 

Jon immediately eased up on the pressure and got a choked sob in response. He felt a twinge of guilt, knowing how frustrating it had to be.

But he could deal with a twinge. 

He started to lazily sweep his finger, back and forth, from Richie's balls to his entrance -- pausing to circle it, but nothing more.

After just a couple passes, Richie was writhing like he'd been possessed. "Jon -- _Ah_ \-- I swear to God."

Jon lifted his head, still tracing that light path with his finger. "You sure you wanna bring God into this?"

Richie closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, and for a moment Jon thought he might get decked mid-blow job. That would be a first.

But instead Richie brazenly wrapped his calf around Jon's shoulder and tried again to press down and deepen their connection.

"Ugh. _Please,_ " he whimpered, shedding all pride.

And this time it worked -- not because Jon was caving like a sap. He just realized that as much as he enjoyed toying with his bedmate, it was even more fun to make him come.

He quickly kissed the soft skin of Richie's inner thigh, then wrapped his hand around the base of his cock. Even before Jon engulfed him, Richie's moan -- open and utterly debauched -- was bouncing off the walls. 

Jon spared a second to wonder what the neighbors were thinking, but he quickly lost that thread when Richie grabbed a handful of his hair.

"If you stop again, I'll kill you."

"Mmm," Jon replied around his cock, and the grip on his hair tightened.

It was a little painful, but he didn't exactly mind. Because his hands were sliding under Richie's hips, and he was drinking an intoxicating blend of sounds and tastes and textures. And sip by sip, it became crystal-clear how this could be addictive.

The thought was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating -- just like so many thoughts Jon had been having lately.

Luckily, he wasn't in a position to dwell on his mental wanderings. Here, it was easy to turn off the noise and just feel the muscles under his hands tense and quiver. To just tune into the tenor of Richie's cut-off cry -- and, when it was time, simply accept the warmth filling his throat.

He could let Richie whisper his name on repeat and curl his fingers in his hair, while he continued to suck him dry. He could keep the connection, without judgment, until the hitch in Richie's breath told him it was becoming too much.

And he could bring his lips to that soft skin once last time, without worrying so much if it seemed sentimental.

Even the part after, where they laid together, was becoming easier now. He wasn't so worried, anymore, about the implication of resting his head on Richie's belly and allowing those fingertips to trace random shapes on his skin.

He wasn't so self-conscious about the fact that they were, technically, cuddling -- and their physical contact had nothing to do with getting off.

It was the next part where he always got into trouble. The part where he kept thinking about the fact that their relationship was playing out entirely in hotel rooms. And how that made it less real.

This time, Jon decided to pre-empt that storyline and reach out for something that was absolutely real.

With his last ounce of energy, he crawled up and kissed Richie's jaw, slack with fatigue. And then his cheek, and then his temple. And then the spot just below his ear.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, since he was there.

Richie swallowed but said nothing, so Jon plunked his head onto his shoulder and waited. A moment later, Richie started to grope around the bedspread until he found what he was looking for.

"Here," he said, wearily waving a twenty in front of Jon's nose. "You totally earned this."

Jon grabbed the bill and tossed it aside. "Idiot," he griped, making the fondness clear in his voice. "Just let me apologize for real."

Richie sighed. "It's fine."

He slowly turned onto his side so their faces were inches apart. "You just love me so much, you psyched yourself out over something that is actually ridiculously simple."

He injected the words with an extra dose of sarcasm -- which signaled, loud and clear, that he was hoping they were true.

Jon smirked. "You can believe that if you want."

Richie smiled, in that knowing way.

"And," Jon forged on, before he could be snared in a web of tenderness, "birthday presents are _not_ simple."

Richie rolled his eyes then pushed to sit up. Jon watched his backside while he leaned over to fish around the floor next to the bed. When he flopped back down, he had the card in hand.

"Why didn't you just give me this?"

He was holding the card open for Jon to see his own careful penmanship.

_Happy Birthday - Love, J_

He darted his eyes to the side, not caring for the reminder of his inadequacy. "Yeah, right. A dog card would've been fine."

He glanced at Richie and got a shrug in return. "Why not?"

Jon scanned his face. He hated when Richie tried to charm him like he was a girl -- They knew each other too well for that shit. But studying him now, Jon couldn't detect any artifice. 

"OK." He reached to smooth down a few tufts of Richie's sex hair. "I'll remember that for next year."

Richie just looked at him for a beat, clearly letting the words sink in. Inside, Jon let himself feel a minor victory. Maybe he wasn't so bad at surprises after all.

Richie smiled a little before rolling onto his back and putting the card on the nightstand.

"Sounds good," he said, while his face was conveniently shielded.

He stood the card upright, so the stupid wet dog was looking at them. Jon considered lunging across and knocking it over. But Richie was lying down again and looking at him expectantly. Since it was his birthday, Jon gave in -- nestling into his side and tossing an arm across his belly. 

Richie laid a hand on his forearm. "And you know, it's still my birthday for, like, another twenty-three hours. Plenty of time to redeem yourself."

Jon smiled. "True." He kissed Richie's shoulder then closed his eyes. "I'll do my best."

Richie's palm was warm on his arm. "I know."

END


End file.
